


unspoken rule

by orphan_account



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2017-12-14 23:35:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/842733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Rivaille doesn’t clean up, if no one’s looking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	unspoken rule

**Author's Note:**

> the first time i write in this fandom and it’s porn. what is a timeline? do they have cup-briefs in shingeki? who cares? not me

Sometimes Rivaille doesn’t clean up, if no one’s looking. Sometimes, on days when no one is available to fuck him into the wall, fingers gripping his hips like they’re desperate to keep him— sometimes stinging cuts and the ache of his bruises send a different kind of thrill sparking through his veins. This time it’s a 10 metre Titan that he somehow manages to miss, its shining wet teeth snapping closed inches from his shoulder. Quite aside from Rivaille’s distaste of how unsanitary it is, the adrenaline rush from being  _this close_ to death leaves him shivering with a very base sort of need.

All the urgent things are done, less important things delegated, rubbish paperwork on the desk to be ignored until he’s in the right frame of mind. Most of his squad has been requisitioned by Hanji to help with yet another experiment, and he’s grudgingly thankful that she’s so quick on the uptake.

Rivaille doesn’t bother locking the door when he reaches his room, just throws it shut and leans against it, biting his lip as he unbuckles the waist belt and unzips his trousers. His hands are shaking, he notices; probably means he’s gone too long without. And then noticing anything becomes a chore when his knuckles brush the coarse hair trailing into his briefs, damp from all the sweating he’s done today. He palms himself lightly, exhaling at the contact even through the padded cup. If he presses hard enough Rivaille can get off just like this, but the briefs are a bitch to wash and he wants proper skin-on-skin after the way the belts have been rubbing against all the right/wrong places.

The belts are simple enough to get out of the way without taking off the entire harness, and in short order the ones that cross over his groin are dangling to either side and he’s pushed down his briefs just enough to get a hand around his cock. He doesn’t get wet like Elwin does, it’s not nearly slick enough especially considering the calluses on his fingers. Ordinarily he wouldn’t like this, preferring it slow and hot and teasing but that is  _not_ what he needs right now— now he needs fast, brutal, enough that after the first couple of rough strokes his knees buckle and he slides down the door until he’s on the floor.

The way his jacket pulls at his shoulders reminds him of Elwin two months ago, holding Rivaille down on his desk and fucking him with too little prep, clothes bunching up uncomfortably under him. He licks his lips, shudders, knees involuntarily falling open.

Thinking about Elwin opens the door to other things, real and imagined— sex when he’s only wearing the body belts and nothing else— Elwin’s mouth sucking bruises into his thighs— the way Elwin looks when he’s standing in the aftermath of a battle, stiff and tall and splattered with gore— Rivaille’s cock twitches at that image, pre-come beading in the slit. His breath catches wetly in his throat and his hand speeds up.

He lets himself imagine that Elwin pushing him down amongst a sea of steaming Titan carcasses, ripping his clothes off (because Elwin is  _strong_ , and when he’s in a mood he isn’t careful with it) and just—  _taking_  him, like that, while Titans rampage around them and the ground trembles at their footsteps. It’s an empty fantasy, it’s never going to happen because Rivaille isn’t fool enough to throw his life away like that, but—

All at once he’s nearly there and then it’s too much— it’s enough, and he comes, choking on a gasp, into his hand. 

Rivaille sits there trying to get his breathing under control for exactly half a minute before the mess on his hand and the blood dried tacky on his clothes start to get to him. He pulls out his handkerchief with the clean hand and wipes off the semen, eyes narrowed in distaste. There are people to see and reports to write, now that he doesn’t have the excuse of need burning under his skin. He zips his trousers, fastens his belts again and gets up. 

There’s also the matter of Jaeger, who’d been surprisingly useful this mission. Rivaille supposes some recognition is in order if he doesn’t want to get reproachful looks from his squad— every time he ignores Jaeger it’s like they think he’s kicked a puppy. Brat has them all fooled; Rivaille’s read the files. Jaeger isn’t anyone’s definition of a puppy.

He tosses the soiled handkerchief into the wastebasket and leaves the room, mind occupied by thoughts of how maddeningly  _soft_ his squad can be sometimes.

.

Eren barely makes it around the corner before the corporal’s door opens, heart thudding with adrenaline and confused arousal. His trousers are tight and just this side of painful where the belts cross, tight against his groin. His hands curl into loose fists at his sides.

There is a tacit agreement among the squad that you do not disturb the corporal after a mission, but Eren’d had something important to say (he can’t quite remember it now, his mind’s gone all goopy and useless) and he’d thought it would be okay to wait until Rivaille was free, so he’d escaped Hanji’s clutches and gone to wait next to Rivaille’s room. And then—  _that_ —

He’s trying extra hard not to imagine visuals to go along with the sounds that had filtered through the door, but it’s a lost cause.

“Shit,” Eren says, eloquently.


End file.
